


Sleeptalkers

by emmaliza



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Angst, Canonical Character Death, Denial, Dreams and Nightmares, F/M, Mental Health Issues, Murder, Non-Explicit Sex, Revenge, Violent Thoughts, generally disturbing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-11-21
Updated: 2017-11-21
Packaged: 2019-02-05 02:46:44
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 971
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12785280
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/emmaliza/pseuds/emmaliza
Summary: Jon talks in his sleep. Petyr doesn't. Lysa doesn't know if she does.





	Sleeptalkers

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the [the kinks I do for love prompt:](https://thekinksidoforlove.dreamwidth.org/595.html?thread=74067#cmt74067) "[Books] Lysa/Petyr quote prompt. _If we choose to, we can live in a world of comforting illusions. We can allow ourselves to be deceived by false realities. Or we can use them to hide our true intentions._ " Possibly got a bit off-topic.

Jon talks in his sleep. He doesn't often burden her with it, only when the old man is so exhausted by his futile attempts at fucking her that he can't even pull himself from her bed before collapsing into slumber, but Lysa resents it every time. She tosses and turns all night, unable to drift away when he blathers on next to her. It reaches the point she wants to grab his pillow and press it to his face, just to make the noise stop.

It's not as if he speaks of anything interesting. Dozens of half-forgotten memories, names of wives and heirs before her, the pitiful relics of a man who's lived too long already. Sometimes he sounds wounded as he calls out for a long gone nephew, or his cousin wife who died of a winter chill. Her lord husband has never shown her pain. Sometimes it makes her think she should call for a nurse, lest his griefs truly hurt him. And she hates that thought, for she does not want to care what becomes of this man. She knows she'll be happier when he's dead.

Still, when he sleeps by her side and cries for those who died before she was even born, it's too easy not to see him as the monster her father sold her to, but just a sad old man almost as cursed as she is.

Lysa hates that thought. She does not want to find any comfort in this match that stole her life away.

Petyr does not talk in his sleep. It is rare she has the opportunity to know as much, but the few nights they are brave enough to spend together, he holds her close and does not say a word. Lysa likes to think that is because he has no secrets from her. His dreams are not haunted by words he will never speak, by ghosts long gone – she knows he must grieve for their murdered babe as much as she does, but he has her in his arms, and craves nothing else. Not anymore.

Lysa dreams freely when she lies with Petyr. She dreams of love and children and family, and power, and sex. She dreams of him fucking her in the Great Hall of Riverrun, in her lord father's seat, and Lord Hoster's face blanching as he watches her take his ward's cock more eagerly, more desperately than she ever did as a girl. She imagines some terrible fate befalling Edmure and Catelyn, of Petyr fucking a dozen babes into her, sweet and trueborn, and making them her father's heirs. Lysa dreams of vengeance. Petyr must do too.

She does not dream of Catelyn. Catelyn is so long gone she seems a dream already, a nightmare – herself, but better, braver, smarter, more beautiful than she could ever be. A river vixen who stole her life from her, but such creatures do not exist. The North suits Catelyn, for she is frozen away, untouchable and untouching. She is like the Others the Northerners whisper of to their babes at night.

Lysa does not know if she talks in her sleep. No-one has told her such. Once, Catelyn said she did, but it has been so many years since she slept anywhere near Catelyn that she lets those words float away in the city air.

Lysa chooses to forget she ever had a sister.

She dreams of her father. She dreams of watching him die. She dreams of making him bleed, like she has bled; she dreams of cutting a slit in him, like the slit he so punished her for, and with. She dreams of watching the blood drip out of him, slow and painful, until he has not a drop left to taint her with. She dreams of leaving his body out in the summer sun, to be eaten by crows and maggots, like nothing more than a mangy dog.

When Jon wakes by her side, she scowls and goes to dress herself for the day, extracting herself from the risk of kindness. When she wakes in Petyr's arms, she smiles and asks him what he dreamt of. He smiles back and kisses her brow.  _You._

When Petyr gives her the vial, she dreams of love and children and family, and nothing else.  _For us, my sweet,_  he whispers as he slides his cock inside her.  _For the family we never had. For your boy._  She dreams of her Sweetrobin, she dreams of him growing brave and strong and clever, and loving her more than anyone of her blood ever has. She dreams of him being hers forever, the one thing that no-one has ever taken from her, and she will destroy anyone who tries.

She does not dream of death. She doesn't dream of watching Jon sip his wine, and feeling the blood boil in her throat. She does not dream of her father, weeping and begging her forgiveness, begging her not to punish an innocent man for his sins. She does not dream of Catelyn, broken, ruined, woeful, barely able to speak, but hissing of betrayal.

Lysa does not remember those dreams.

Jon fucks her one more time after she murders him, leaves a trail of seed even more sickly than usual for her to remember him by. She watches him fall asleep for good, and he is kind enough not to disturb her with a word. She writes a letter, as Petyr bade, but she does not let herself think she is writing it to anyone. She scratches the words onto the parchment and they sink into it. They mean nothing to her.

Jon sleeps beneath King's Landing, never to speak again, and when Lysa returns to the Eyrie she sacks two maids she hears whispering that their lady screams through the night.


End file.
